2612
by templremus1990
Summary: Sam Tyler's time in 1973, as seen from the other side. Series of interconnected drabbles. Spoilers for most of series 2 and for the start of A2A. Rated for angst and character death.


**Title: **2612**  
****Word Count: **810**  
****Summary: **Sam's time in 1973, as seen on the other side. Minor A2A spoilers. **  
****Rating: **T for (canon) character death, dark themes, and angst.  
**A/N: **My first go writing any LOM fic in the first person, so do let me know how I got on. I own nothing except my (nameless) OC.

**2612**

Mrs Tyler comes most every day. To the doctors she's Mrs Tyler; a few nurses address her as Ruth, but here she's only ever 'Mum'. I call her that, too, whenever I need to call her anything, because that's what they tell you to do, after all; keep talking, use familiar names and voices, anything to pin them to this world a little longer.

"Morning, Sam. Your Mum's here to see you."

After the first few days these things become routine.

It's hard to prevent smiles from growing forced, harder still to stay positive when there is so little to report. We get round this by keeping up a steady stream of outside news, reading everything aloud as far as possible; newspapers, magazines, the text on cards and posters.

I even know a nurse who has her coffee break with him, reeling off jokes from the backs of biscuit wrappers.

_Q. What happened to the frog that broke down?_

_A. He got toad away. _

Neil keeps up the sessions for another three weeks before Doctor Matthews decides his services are no longer needed. The first time there was a brief spike in Sam's ECG, which sparked a corresponding flurry of excitement across the ward. "Just a reaction to the medication," Dr Matthews shrugs, and even Neil knows better than to argue.

For a long while there is Maya, though only on intermittent visits. She plans them around the times when his Mum is here; ostensibly so that Sam is never alone, though there may also be an element of aversion.

Their styles don't match. Ruth is gentle but resilient, the look in her eyes one of steely determination. Maya is blank and shaken, and as the days turn into weeks we watch her cycle through all five stages of grief, predictable as clockwork, until she finally emerges to fade away.

Sam is fading, too.

_Q. How do you take away varnish?  
A. __Remove the 'r'._

The fourth visitor is thin. That's what I tell the tribunal, during the inevitable uproar that follows; thin, and greying, and tired. What he doesn't look, in the five or so minutes that we are in the lobby together, is mad.

It wasn't my shift. That sounds like an excuse, but it's not meant to be; just a statement of fact. By the time I check back in the next morning, Tony Crane has been arrested and there are three policemen in the ICU, drinking coffee and taking down statements from the night-time staff.

Part of me wants to see some great, seismic change in his condition, even -though I hate to admit it- for the worse. At least then it would be some sign that what happens out here has an effect. Instead Sam looks much the same as when I left him. And so the wait goes on.

_Q. Which bird is always out of breath?  
A. a puffin._

"Hello, Sam. I've been wanting to meet you."

The young woman leans over to grasp his hand before introducing herself to me, and already I know that I will like her. DI Alex Drake is brightly and smartly-dressed, all quick talk and disarming confidence. She has done her research, too, and has a knack of making statistics seem both pertinent and personal. Even so, there are few positive ways to construe the outcome of her analysis. We both know that the chances of a full recovery after four weeks on the bottom end of the Glasgow Scale are next to nothing.

Despite all this DI Drake persists. She shows me a report into the use of MRI to map a patient's emotional response, suggesting that Ruth, if not Sam, would benefit from knowing she can be heard.

Three weeks later Sam is scanned, but not for that. For a tumour.

_Q. What lies at the bottom of the sea and shakes?_

_A. A nervous wreck._

Endings are rare in these sorts of cases; mostly the story just peters out, exhausted. In this respect, as in so many others, Sam Tyler was extraordinary.

After Ruth has been led away and the body removed we clear the room of everything else; strip the bed, turn off the equipment and open up the blinds. Somebody passes me a plastic bag full of detritus, and I sift quickly through the contents for anything that might need to be returned.

"Who threw this in here?"

Indifferent shrugs all round. I wonder whether to leave it in Paediatrics, but something about the broad smile, the limp, drooping arms, disturbs me.

In the end I prop it on a chair in the hallway, still grinning.

Downstairs Dr Matthews is on the phone to DI Drake, breaking the news. She has her study now, though what that'll mean for her, I can't imagine.

_Q. What breaks when you say it?  
A. Silence._


End file.
